nlightenment
came to Yorke in a flash, as he peered over his superior's shoulder.

"D Two!" he gasped, "I knew I'd seen that horse somewhere! It's
'Duster,' Larry Blake's horse. Tchkk! this must be him. My God!"

"Shure!" snapped Slavin testily. "Wake up! Is yeh're mem'ry goin', man?
One av yeh're own cases last month, tu!" He tenderly pocketed the
clippers. "Yes! ye shud know him!"--dryly--"lukked troo th' bottom av a
glass wid him often enough."

"Let's see'f he's got any letters or anything in his pockets--to make
sure!" began Redmond eagerly. Suiting the action to the word he bent
down to investigate. But Slavin intruded a huge arm. "Hould on, bhoy!"
he said, with all an old policeman's fussiness over rightful procedure.
"Du not touch! That is th' coroner's bizness. Did they not dhrill that
inta yeh at Regina?"

He stared thoughtfully at the corpse. "Dhrink an' th' divil! eyah!
dhrink an' th' divil!"--sadly. "Larry, me pore bhoy! niver more will ye
come a-whoopin' ut out av Cow Run on yeh 'Duster' horse . . .
shpiflicated belike an' singin' 'Th' Brisk Young Man." Austerely he
glanced at Yorke, "'Tis a curse, this same dhrink!"

"How do you know the poor beggar was drunk?" queried the latter, a trifle
sulkily. "He may have been as sober as you or I."

"Shpeak for yehsilf!" retorted Slavin dryly, "Ah! this must be Docthor
Cox comin' now!"

A cutter containing two men was approaching them rapidly. Presently it
drew up alongside the group and a short, rotund gentleman, clad in furs,
sprang out and came swiftly, bag in hand. He was middle-aged, with a
gray moustache and kind, alert, dark eyes. Greeting the policemen
quietly, he turned to the broken body.

"Tchkk! good God!" He shook his head sadly. Redmond thought he had
never seen a medical man so unprofessionally shocked. Presently he
straightened up and turned to Slavin. "Can you identify him, Sergeant?"

That worthy nodded. "Eyah! 'tis Larry Blake, I'm thinking Docthor. Best
frisk him now an' see, I guess. Maybe he has letthers."

Hastily diving into his bag the coroner produced a pair of long keen
scissors and slit the short, frozen sheepskin coat. In the breast-pocket
of the coat underneath, amongst other miscellany two old letters rewarded
his search. He glanced at the superscriptions and handed them up to
Slavin.

"Larry Blake it is," he said. He felt the soggy, pulped head. "Skull's
stove right in. Any one of these sma